Right Behind You
by moxbatch
Summary: "Why couldn't I have waited until after Nationals to get hit by a car?" Instead of heading to NYC with ND, Kurt's stranded in Lima with Blaine, which  he'll learn  isn't the worst thing in the world.


Media: Fic.

Title: Right Behind You

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Established Kurt/Blaine, hinted Samcedes and Brittana.

Spoilers: All aired episodes.

Warnings: Plot? What plot? AU after 2x21. Shameless, self-indulgent hurt/comfort fluff. Excessive use of the word "rhinestones."

Word Count: ~11,500

Summary: "Why couldn't I have waited until _after_ Nationals to get hit by a car?" Instead of heading to NYC with ND, Kurt's stranded in Lima with Blaine, which (he'll learn) isn't the worst thing in the world.

Author's Note: This was only supposed to be a short h/c fic, but I couldn't stop writing to it. There's some stuff I left out because I had trouble wording what was in my head, but I'm happy I managed to finish it, even if it's not exactly what I had in mind. I don't take it too seriously, it's all for fun.

[_xoxo_]

"Hey, I got the... Kurt, are you _bedazzling_ your cast?" Despite his incredulous tone, Blaine looked completely unsurprised. He was standing in the doorway to Kurt's bedroom, loosely hugging a thick pile of magazines to his chest. When Kurt looked up from applying plastic jewels to the bulky cast on his lower leg, Blaine drawled out "oh, honey" in exaggerated sympathy. There were several rebellious rhinestones sticking to his boyfriend's chin and cheeks. Kurt remained guiltily quiet for a moment longer, then huffed out a sigh.

"This is a disaster." He wasn't only referring to his decorative skills while under the influence of pain killers. "I did _not_ think this through, Blaine. I just—I can _not_ reach it all. I can't do anything." His bruised thigh and road rash-covered hip were also preventing him from reaching down much farther as the pain medication and muscle relaxers wore off. His leg was starting to throb, reminding him of why it was encased in a short leg cast. Kurt dropped his hands into his lap in defeat, sitting back against the pillows behind him. "Why couldn't I have waited until _after_ Nationals to get hit by a car?"

Blaine set down the magazines he'd been asked to bring on a cleared space atop Kurt's bureau before taking a seat on the edge of his boyfriend's bed. He placed his hand over Kurt's, mindful of the bruise from where the IV had been. "I _am_ sorry to say I can't help you with missing Nationals, _but_—" He cupped Kurt's cheek with his free hand, brushing off rhinestones with gentle sweeps of his thumb, "I can offer my assistance with your _reaching_ problem." Kurt squinted at him, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I honestly can't tell if you're hitting on me, or if you seriously think you can follow the intricate pattern I've designed." For a second, Kurt couldn't remember which one of them had recently been concussed. "No offense, dear, but I _do_ have to wear this for the _majority_ of our upcoming summer break." Oh, wait. _He_ was the concussed one—the concussed one who would _oh so_ definitely need a set of hands (that weren't attached to his aching body) to help finish stylin' up his cast. He warily looked down at the sea of multi-colored rhinestones surrounding them. "Then again," he was quick to retract.

Kurt's cheeks flushed when Blaine leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth. When he pulled back, Kurt let out a breathless laugh before reaching up to brush a sparkling rhinestone off Blaine's lower lip. His fingertips lingered on Blaine's slack mouth, pressing down with the slightest pressure. Kurt hummed when Blaine moved in for another kiss, one less chaste than the first, and cupped his chin. They broke apart when Kurt winced into the kiss, every muscle in his body protesting as he tried to shift closer to Blaine.

"This," he dejectedly repeated, "is a disaster." Blaine's eyes softened, and Kurt was about to tell him to wipe the guilty look off his face (because there was nothing wrong with wanting to distract your boyfriend from the pain he was in with sweet boy kisses) when Burt shuffled into his room, holding pill bottles in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Kurt frowned at the sight, he really wasn't liking: a) the pills. Sure, they made the pain go away for a while, but they also made him sleepy and loopy. He wanted to spend some _lucid_ time with Blaine, and also b) the bags under his father's eyes. Burt looked like he hadn't slept in days.

All it took was Burt's weary gaze to meet Blaine's to send him scrambling off the bed, a movement which caused a brilliant waterfall of rhinestones to cascade down the side of the bed and pool around his feet. Blaine waited for one of them to crack a joke, but Burt only furrowed his brows together while Kurt unhelpfully shrugged. Burt set the milk down on the nightstand besides Kurt's bed, looking over his son with an expression that Blaine couldn't define. There was an obvious mixture of guilt and relief, but that wasn't all. Blaine wasn't a father; it was something he wasn't supposed to understand.

Blaine had found out from Finn about the accident. He'd been attempting to procrastinate by pretending to study while creating a new playlist on iTunes when he'd gotten the first text message. It was just a simple question—'_U there?_' quickly followed by, '_call me_,' and he hadn't even been too concerned until he heard the sirens in the background when Finn answered. He had also learned from Finn about how Burt had only been making his way up the front steps to their house when Kurt, who'd been trailing behind him while busily fiddling with his cell phone, walked onto the street as a car flew through a stop sign. So close he'd been, yet so far away.

"Hey, uh, Blaine—" Burt cleared his throat, and Kurt positively beamed because his father had finally called his boyfriend by the correct name (and without any grunting!). He'd been "accidentally" getting his name wrong since he found out they were—insert Burt's grunting noises here—"romantically involved." Mostly it was just 'Blake' or 'Blair,' but Kurt was sure he heard 'Blaise' once or twice. "Think you could run downstairs for me? I left a plate of, uh, toast on the kitchen counter."

"Of course I could, Mr. Hummel." Blaine clapped his hands together, rocking back on his heels. Kurt totally side-eyed him, wishing he could steal away some of his energy. It was becoming a chore just to stay upright. "Do you want anything while I'm down there, Kurt?"

Instead of rattling off a retort that would've earned him a "you're so adorable" scoff, Kurt realized he must have mentally clocked out for a moment. He sucked in a sharp breath when Burt's fingers skimmed through his hair as he worriedly asked, "you okay?" Behind him, Blaine lingered, the look on his face matching Burt's tone. He anxiously grazed his top teeth over his bottom lip, and Kurt instantly felt the warmth that spread across his cheeks again. The effect Blaine had on him left him feeling stupidly exasperated at times. "_Kurt_?"

"I'm good," he finally answered to both of their questions, peering down at his injured leg. He flexed his toes in and out, jaw clenched tight. "_Really_ good," he added. He waved his hand at the pill bottles as if he were swatting away gnats. "I mustn't overdo it with the happy, happy, joy, joy pills. Maybe in another hour..." He ignored the way Blaine squinted at him. Go get the toast already, Blaine. "Or three." He was nearly—almost—kind of... _maybe_ certain he could last three more hours. 

"How 'bout we stick to the schedule Carole left?" Blaine took small, backwards steps out of the room, possibly sensing an argument on the rise. He was totally Switzerland in the Hudson-Hummel household, for sure. Whether the disputes were about pain management or what toppings to get on the Friday night pizza, Blaine remained neutral (and out of the room, away from anyone who could drag him into anything). "You got pretty banged up, kid, it's OK to have the edge taken off."

Kurt wanted to explain that the pills didn't just 'take the edge off.' They removed the filter between his brain and mouth, they made him reach into the air and try to catch floaters in his vision field; they made him _Brittany_. He hated the fuzzy feeling he'd get when they kicked in, how his limbs would tingle. He narrowed his eyes when Burt heavily sighed, already frustrated with his stubbornness, and started out a sentence with a stern "you should." Ugh, should. "No, I _should_ be on a plane to New York City."

"Kurt, you're seventeen years old, not seven. You know by now that life doesn't always go the way it _should_, or the way you want it to." Life was like a box of chocolates... that was left in the sun for too long. You never knew what you were going to get... in what kind of mess. Gooey, chocolatey mess life lessons were the worst, yo. "I'm not going to let you sulk and suffer, not a chance." He rattled the pill bottles. "What I'm saying is, this can be done in one of _two_ ways."

"Was—was that a _threat_? Are you threatening me?" Burt annoyingly rattled the stupid bottles again. Kurt's jaw dropped, nostrils flaring. "You're threatening me!"

"'Threatening' and 'parenting' _are_ loosely synonymous."

Under Burt's watchful eye, Kurt was already chasing down the pills with milk by the time Blaine strolled in. He handed his boyfriend's father the plate of toast, distracted by the wicked scowl on Kurt's face.

"I need to go work on payroll for the garage, but I'll just be downstairs if you need anything, okay?" Kurt heaved out a loud sigh, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. He handed his father the half-empty glass of milk, shaking his pointer finger 'hell to the no' when Burt tried to give him the cold toast. Burt set the plate down on his lap, anyway.

"You know you can go to work at the garage, right? I don't need someone here with me for every hour of every day." He pushed the plate off his thigh, not happy with the glob of butter glaring up at him. Whatever, butter. He hadn't eaten much of anything since he'd been released from the hospital.

"Uh, but you do. Listen, son, you're... y'know, good at dancing—" Kurt gasped, and it wasn't because the toast had slipped off the plate and landed butter-side up on his comforter. "_Great_ at dancing—"

"Fan_tastical_," Blaine enthusiastically supplied. He stepped up to the bed, a cheerful grin on his face.

"But," Burt continued, "you're not exactly graceful when it comes to maneuvering on them crutches." He really didn't need or want his kid to break another bone or sprain another muscle. For the first time, Blaine noticed the discarded underarm crutches in the corner of the room, propped up against the wall. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"Are those... did you wrap ribbons around them like they're maypoles?" Kurt picked up the slice of toast, tearing off the crust.

"You're standing on a mountain of rhinestones, Blaine. Why does anything surprise you right now?" Blaine glanced down at his wristwatch, inwardly wondering how long it would take for the pills to kick in. A miserable Kurt was a testy one.

"It's only going to get worse," Burt quietly mumbled to Blaine, gently pushing past him to pat Kurt's shoulder. "Like I said, I'll be downstairs. Call, text, holler." On his first day home, Kurt had been given a bell to ring, but wore it out on Finn. It had mysterious disappeared overnight, no ransom note left. Burt was waiting to find it randomly, like while opening a coffee canister or mixed in with a bag of broccoli in the freezer. He rested his hand on Blaine's shoulder, pausing in his turn to exit, and spoke quietly to him. The downward curl on the corner of Kurt's mouth deepened.

"Well, this is an unholy alliance." Burt waved his index finger in the general direction of his son, abruptly trailing off in the middle of warning him to "behave" when he noticed a red rhinestone on said finger. There was a Hell, and it _sparkled_. Burt clomped out of the room with slouched shoulders. "It's OK if you want to leave. I know Dalton has finals next week."

"Again, I am sorry to say that I am—" Blaine dropped down onto the bed, stretching out comfortably, and folded an arm behind his head for support. "Not going _anywhere_. This is where I want to be." He set is palm down on Kurt's stomach, fingers sprawled. "I can see your phone lighting up like the fourth of July from here. You're not going to read or reply to any of the messages?" His fingers spastically drummed up and down when Kurt pinched the back of his hand.

"I'm sleeping."

"And by 'sleeping,' you really mean..."

"That I'm green with envy and from nausea, mostly." He groaned out a growl, "They're probably landing about now, so I know I'm going to get bombarded with 'oh em gee, NYC is so awesome' texts, so you can turn my cell phone off for me, please."

"How about during the summer, once you're all healed, we go to New York? I mean, well, I'm sure your parents and Finn would want to go, but it could be a nice trip." He had to add he family part; he wasn't stupid, there wasn't any way in sparkly Hell Burt would allow Blaine to take his son out of state. Oh, and _alone_. The alone part was probably the worst. Definitely. "But for now, right now, we can just lie here together, I'll boot up your laptop, and we can catch up on all the celebrity gossip you missed while in the hospital."

Kurt smiled a fabulously genuine smile, securing his hand over Blaine's. "Blaine Warbler, you are..." He peered down into Blaine's eyes, pensively scrunching his mouth to the side. "Too good to be true, to be perfectly honest." He lifted his hand up, cautiously pressing a fingertip to the tip of Blaine's noise. "Is this a hallucination? I'm hallucinating, right? I bet this is a hallucination."

"You're adorable."

"I bet you say that to _all_ your bedridden boyfriends."

"Nope." Blaine mirrored Kurt's earlier movement, touching his finger to Kurt's nose. "Just you." He chuckled, shaking his head. "We are so ridiculously cheesy."

"We are," Kurt proudly agreed. His smile nervously faltered, and he wetted his lips before speaking up. "Hey, will you... lie with me?"

Blaine looked confused. Kurt dragged his hand up his chest. "Isn't that what I'm doing?"

"No, I mean..." He tucked his chin down, and rolled his head to the side. Blaine propped himself up on an elbow, brushing the back of his hand across Kurt's forehead. "_Blaine_! You, ugh, just... _come here_."

Fifteen minutes later found Blaine with his head pillowed on Kurt's shoulder, arm draped protectively over his waist. He contently listened to the sound of Kurt's breath evening out, eventually closing his own eyes. He tried to keep an ear out for footsteps. This was the first time Burt went without making any comments about him being in Kurt's room, so he didn't want to ruin it, but it wasn't long until his breathing matched Kurt's.

[—] 

"Is your leg elevated enough? I could grab another pillow from your room." Blaine's hands shot up like he'd been jabbed with a hot poker when Kurt forced out a sigh, head jerkily shaking side to side. "It's not _too_ elevated, is it? I'm sorry, Kurt, I bet it's aggravating your hip. Here, let me—" Kurt reached a hand behind his shoulder, grabbing a crutch that was resting against the side of the couch. He shook as menacingly as possible at Blaine, who rolled his eyes. "Babe, I just want you to be comfortable."

Kurt's Saturday had started out pretty well. Burt finally decided to leave the house for a few hours to run some work-related errands, and—and, _and_(!) also decided it was time for Kurt to leave his bedroom before the walls caved in (or before Kurt made good on his threat to escape out the window). Sure, sure, whatever, he was only helped down to the sofa in the living room, but it was somewhat of a step in the right direction, and he gladly accepted it. If only he could get Blaine to calm down a little, _geesh_.

"The only comfort I'm currently capable of having is _boyfriend-provided_ comfort that best involve a warm body beside my own on this couch... _right now_, if that wasn't clear." Mid-way through Kurt's little speech, Blaine snatched his crutch away after getting tapped in the ribcage with the rubber-stopped tip. "Careful! The ribbons, Blaine, _the ribbons_," he hissed when Blaine let the crutch slide off the armchair he'd carelessly thrown it against. OK, maybe _thrown_ was too strong of a word. Close enough.

"As your boyfriend," Blaine sternly started, and Kurt fought back a groan because this sounded like a full-on speech, "I reserve the right to annoy your gravely injured self with a checklist of carefully selected questions to ensure—"

Gravely injured, for real? It had been a clean break. No bone had pierced through the skin, and no surgery had been required, so Kurt had been beyond lucky. As lucky as a person who got struck by an automobile could get. "It's just a broken leg," he interrupted after slight hesitation. It wasn't a big deal, right?

"Kurt, you got run over by a car. A _four thousand pound_ car? _Hit_ you. It's a pretty big deal." Oh. He finally sat down on the couch, even if it was at the edge of the cushion. Blaine took Kurt's hand, sandwiching it between his own. "Let me take care of you, okay? I want to do it, so just... _let me_. I know you—" He bit down on his lower lip, eyes rolling up quickly. "'Don't need any help'," he stressed out the words, shaking his head. "But I do, do need help. I need for you to help me feel useful, like by... uh, _graciously_ allow me to worry about you, and be here for you. Would you please help me, Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes were wide, but Blaine was having trouble reading the emotion in them. He blamed the pain medications for the glazed over look. "I suppose."

"You _suppose_? Use me, abuse me. Make me fetch you warm milk, or pillows, and blankets, or whatever, but _use me_." He had no idea how to get it through to Kurt that he wanted him to get bossy, demanding. There wasn't much he'd been able to do while he was in the hospital, so he figured he had a lot to make up for. That was what boyfriends did, right? He hadn't a clue. Kurt made a nodding motion, corners of his lips twitching into a smile.

"Well, if you're looking for something to do, I guess you could finish gluing rhinestones to my cast." Blaine felt some tension in his shoulders ease away. This, this was a start.

"If that's what you want me to do, I'll do it."

"Yes, yes, fine. But under my total supervision, and I mean that. I'm a fearsome dictator, and you can't move a finger without my consent." Blaine smiled, oblivious of what he was getting himself into, and swooped in for a kiss. Kurt kissed him, a firm press of dry lips, then drew back. "I need chap stick." He gestured his frowning mouth with the hand that wasn't intertwined with Blaine's. "I can't kiss you with _these_."

Blaine squinted his eyes, head tilted to the side as if he were trying to hear for something far away. "What else could you possibly kiss me with, if not with—" Quick like a dapper ninja, he pecked his lips against Kurt's. "_These_?"

"Don't play coy with me, Blaine Warbler. You have a lot on your plate today."

Blaine's beaming smile was brightly naïve.

[—] 

Kurt, with his pressed up against the inside of the arm of the couch, contently yawned while lazily pressing buttons on his cell phone. He had to go back to using the old version of his phone after the new one's screen got cracked in the accident. Blaine was sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the couch from him, Kurt's injured leg resting over two throw pillows in his lap. Beads of sweat were popping up alongside his hairline as he used two pairs of tweezers to finish the placement of rhinestones on the heel of the cast. This had been much, much more... elaborate than he'd anticipated. Much, much... _much_.

"We lost." His head snapped up once the words sunk in. When a rhinestone popped high into the air, he realized he'd pinched down too hard. "We lost at Nationals." Blaine was faced with another moment he couldn't find surprising, not after finding out from Kurt earlier that morning that the New Directions hadn't even started to write their original songs until they got to New York. He wouldn't admit it out loud to Kurt, not yet, but Mr. Shue really failed as a teacher and coach. Blaine watched Kurt's blank face closely, heart clenching tight inside of his chest as he _waited_. "They placed twelfth," he flatly stated, not looking up from the cell phone.

"Kurt—" Blaine was going to jump the gun; he wasn't about to let Kurt blame himself for the New Directions loss at Nationals. He'd go down fighting to convince him otherwise. He set the tweezers down on the coffee table, fleetingly thankful he hadn't managed to glue them to his fingers (again).

"I should've been there." Kurt couldn't stop the guilt from seeping through his thoughts. He hoped his accident hadn't distracted his team mates from preparing for the competition. His phone lit up with another text, vibrating in his hand. His eyebrows lifted up. "Not that I could've prevented Finn and Rachel from making out at the end of the performance." That didn't stop him from imagining having to do a one-legged hop across the stage to use one of his crutches to smack his step-brother and his step-brother's ex-girlfriend's lips apart. "What a disaster."

"_What_?" Kurt nodded, pursing his lips, and handed his cellular phone to Blaine so that he could read all the texts. It wasn't just Mercedes who was keeping him updated—it was everyone, from Finn and Rachel's apologetic messages to Brittany's nonsensical ones about a cup. Some texts were easier to read than others, and not just because of text-speak. Santana's were his favorite: all capital letters and in Spanish. Blaine made faces as he clicked through the text messages. "I'm guessing it wasn't well-received by the audience and judges."

"If a impromptu heterosexual kiss was frowned upon, could you imagine the reaction if _we_ had kissed after our flaming duet?"

"Ah, if only we had. Maybe we could've secured first place instead of second." He hummed loudly, nearly distracted mid-sentence by how _shiny_ Kurt's pedicured toenails were. They hadn't been that polished yesterday. When exactly had Kurt managed that? And _how_? He couldn't reach past his knee without pain in his hip. "There surely would have been fireworks shooting off around us."

"Surely." Kurt agreed, leaning forward to inspect how well Blaine had bedazzled his cast. He dropped back rather heavily, shifting restlessly against the pillow behind his back. "In Bizarro World, which is apparently where the glee club's plane landed. I doubt a kiss—"

"I don't doubt it. The judges saw it for what it was, unprofessional and inappropiate. Stop looking at me like that."

Kurt waved a hand at him, pointer finger twirling downward. "I'll look at you anyway I want until you fix the last row of _crooked_ rhinestones before the cut off for my toes. Don't think I didn't notice, Blaine." Blaine made a hilariously exasperated face that made it near possible for Kurt to keep his facial expression solemn. "Besides, it's not like Rachel ripped her shirt off at the end of the song, then flipped the audience off while Finn motor-boated her."

"Did you really just—_you did_." Blaine's jaw slacked; he looked properly scandalized, but also bemused. "I thought I heard your dad talking about lowering your medication dosages." Well, he'd heard Kurt nagging at his father to lower his medication dosages.

"He did. This—" He gestured himself, "is what you get on _half_ a pill. On the bright side, the walls no longer hiccup in the rhythm of Little Miss Muffet, and the ceiling _finally_ stopped winking down at me. No, really, it was creepy." Blaine made a little noise in the back of his throat. He grazed his fingertips down the hard curve of Kurt's cast, above the ankle. His own legs were starting to fall asleep under him, but he couldn't be bothered to move. "It's OK, I'm over it. I refuse to let myself fall victim to flirtatious surfaces."

"Yeah, maybe you should be cut back from one-half to one-third." Kurt picked at non-existent fabric pills on his pinstriped pajama pants. No, no. They were there, just not visible to the naked (read: sober) eye. He sighed, walking two fingers down his thigh.

"Do you have any idea how many promises I had to make to my dad to get him to lower my dosages? How many _awkward_ promises, Blaine?" He smiled, slowing his fingers when Blaine's own began a slow march up his cast. They met at his knee, and laced their fingers together.

"Do I even want to know?"

"You don't." A shudder was suppressed. "Really, really don't."

Blaine smiled, squeezing his fingers around Kurt's. "You want to go sit outside?" Kurt's face absolutely lit up. Fresh air shouldn't seem like a privilege; Burt would have to understand why his 'don't move off the couch' rule was meant to be broken.

"I thought you'd never ask."

[—]

"Be honest. On a scale from one to ten, how pathetic is it that _Lima Bean_ is the first place I visit when I'm released from house arrest?" Kurt leaned back in his chair, crossing his bad leg over the good. He inhaled deeply through his nose, holding in the breath. He exhaled in a slow sigh, a smile stretching across his face as Blaine pushed a lidded cup of coffee across the circular table.

"The only _honest_ thing I'm going to do is distract you with coffee." Blaine loved that Kurt's happy smile reached his eyes. He loved that he was finally getting some color back in his face, that the dark circles around his eyes were fading away. He rested his elbows down on the table. "And compliments. You look great."

"You have my attention, but I'm hardly distracted. Do continue." However, before Blaine could even thin of a oh-yeah-we're-in-public appropriate way to continue, Mercedes and Sam, seemingly out of nowhere, popped up at their table. Blaine turned sideways in his seat to find Mercedes gaping at Kurt. He waved his fingers at her, uncrossing his legs.

"Kurt! What are you doing out of bed?"

Sam tapped his finger against his chin. "Me thinks someone finally sawed off their shackles."

"'Cedes, I got acquainted with the hood of a car. I have a broken leg, not a terminal illness." This wasn't the first time he had to remind her in the past two weeks. Wouldn't be the last, either. He'd be heading back to school just in time for finals, and expected to hear it every morning until the last day of classes. The overreaction exhausted him, really. He was tired of repeating himself.

"Yeah, right?" Sam perked up, making a writing motion with his hand. "Hey dude, can we sign your cast now?"

Blaine wrinkled his nose. "There really isn't any place left to sign."

"Say what? Blaine Warbler," Mercedes scolded, setting her hands on her hips, "did you hog up all that prime real estate with your name?"

"Well, yeah. My name _is_ a pretty big deal."

"Ignore him. No one has signed it." Blaine noticed the blush creeping up Kurt's neck. He rested his chin on his hand, sighing to himself. "I thought signatures would look to messy, I wanted something _neater_." He'd unintentionally put too much emphasis on the last word, like maybe it wasn't the word he was going for.

Sam bent over to stick his head under the table. Startled, Kurt made a noise, re-crossing his legs. "You _bedazzled_ your cast? Look at all the colors, Mercedes. It looks like Walt Disney threw up on it."

Mercedes hid a smile behind her hand. "Uh, Sam, maybe you should come up from under the table. You kind of lookin' like a total perv." He popped back up, his head coming close to knocking off the edge of the table.

"She isn't wrong," Kurt agreed, holding his chin up high. "I'm going to be the better person here, by the way, and ignore the rather insulting description of my—" Blaine cleared his throat. "_Our_ hard work." He looked between them, eyes narrowing slightly. "Say, what are you guys up to, anyway?"

"Oh, _us_?" Mercedes' eyes went wide. She looked at Sam, and they both shook their heads at each other. Blaine glanced back to share a knowing smile with an exasperated Kurt. "We were, _I_ was—we bumped into each other in the parking lot. Y'know, on the way in."

"What a coincidence, huh? Of all the coffeehouses in Lima, and we all bump into each other here. It's uncanny." He clapped his hands together. "It's baffling. It's _so_ ironic."

"You obviously do not know what any of those words mean," Kurt remarked sharply without any heat behind his words. If anything, he looked amused at the sight in front of him.

"Kurt, it's great seeing you up and running." At 'running,' Kurt mouthed 'no' and nodded his head at his crutches, earning a redundant "hey, are those ribbons?" from Sam. Mercedes shot the blonde a look. "We're—_I'm_ going to get a bite to eat. We'll catch up later, 'kay? I can't wait to hear about what you're doing to do this summer."

"And I, Mecerdes, can't wait to wait about who you're going to do this summer." Blaine's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Sam found something on the ceiling above him to stare at. Mercedes cocked an eyebrow at Kurt, frowning.

"'Scuse me?"

"Yes, please do—excuse him, that is." Blaine cupped his hand over his mouth so Kurt couldn't see his lips move, but didn't lower his voice. "He's still on _a lot_ of pain killers. It's taken me days to convince him my hair isn't made out of cotton candy. I have him _weighted down_ to that chair so he doesn't _float away_, you know?"

"You don't make any sense, Blaine. If your hair isn't made out of cotton candy, then what else could it possibly be made out of?" Kurt scoffed, lifting his drink up with two hands.

Mercedes sighed, lips pouting out as she stared down at her best friend. "Oh, my poor boo. Is the pain really bad?"

"It's bad, but not bad-bad. Blaine's been helping me through it." He stretched his arm across the table, holding out his hand. Blaine turned in his seat, pressing his warm palm into Kurt's. His fingers curled down, the light caress of his fingertips tickling the back of Kurt's hand.

"You're so lucky," she said, grinning at Kurt. Blaine nodded, eyes not leaving his boyfriend's face.

"I am."

[—]

"_That's_ the trophy?" Rachel was proudly holding up their twelfth place trophy, grinning as if she had the Holy Grail in her hands. She nodded, unfazed by Kurt's obvious hesitance, and he found himself nodding his head with her. "Well, it's... it's very... _very_ much a trophy," he quietly remarked, blinking quickly. She sat down on the plastic chair next to him, cradling the prize to her chest.

"I really wish you could have been there with us," Rachel sighed. She looked down, pausing to bit down on her bottom lip, wanting to choose her words wisely. "I wouldn't change a thing, except for that. It didn't quite feel right to be there without you."

"Of course it didn't. It's like going to a foreign land without a translator. I'll steer clear of speeding, non-attentive drivers for next year." He shared a smile with her, mind drifting off to a what-if scenario where he'd gone to Nationals with his team like he should have. He shook away thoughts of them singing together on a Broadway stage. As if that would ever have happened.

"Please do," she asked of him. Anything else she had left to say to him was interrupted by the rest of glee club filing into the room. Kurt wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when he returned to school, but it wasn't _this_. Everyone seemed so animated, fresh and happy. He sat back in his seat, tension he hadn't known was there easing out of his shoulders. Artie was the first to notice him.

"Yo, bro! Welcome back."

Brittany hurriedly bounced over to him, pulling Santana, who she was holding hands with, along for the ride. "Kurt, I made you a card!" She carefully slid one arm behind his shoulders for a one-armed hug, and kissed his cheek. "I also wrote the limited edition lyrics of 'My Cup' on the back for you."

"'My—'?" He nearly dared to ask, but when he looked up from the glitter-coated card, Kurt found a lot of heads behind Brittany's shoulders shaking 'no.' On the front of the card was written 'get well soon,' but with a drawing of a well instead of the word, and the double o's in 'soon' were made into eyes with a smiling mouth below them. "Wow, Brit. Thanks for—" He cut himself off when he opened the card to find that all of New Directions had signed it and written messages.

"I would have given it to you sooner, but I thought I lost it, but it turned out Lord Tubbington was lying on it. Silly cat, cards are for Kurt."

Lauren plopped down on the chair on Kurt's other side. She handed him a tri-folded sheet of paper. "Miss Pillsbury wanted me to give you this." The bold text on the front of the pamphlet read: 'how to look both ways before crossing the street.' Was someone still pressed about getting their shoes thrown up on by a weeping, drunken teenager? Kurt wasn't even sure if Lauren was serious or not. It was hard to tell with her; she was worse than Blaine.

"Oh!" Rachel jumped up, lightly tapping the trophy against Kurt's shoulder. He wondered if he'd just gotten knighted. Or maybe Berry'd. "Mr. Shue said he was getting the DVD of our performance today. You'll get to—"

"Get to _what_?" Santana let go of Brittany's hand to cross her arms over her chest. "Watch you and Dessert Nipples McGee over there—" She nodded her head in Finn's direction, ignoring his mumbled, indignant '_hey_.' "Get yo mack on behind our backs? Hummel got pummeled by a car, Berry, I think he's been through enough."

Sam hitched his shoulders up in a shrug. "At least we'll be able to pinpoint that long, awkward moment of silence where people were too stunned to clap. That was fun. And did I mention _long_ and _awkward_?"

"You guys want to know what else is long and awkward?" Puck asked, smirking.

"No, we don't." Mr. Shue deadpanned from the doorway of the room. "I'm sure we all really, really don't." That got a few chuckles from his students. "Kurt, it's good to see you back. We all really—are those your _crutches_?" Finn got his hand waved away by Kurt's for trying to poke at the ribbons tightly wound around his crutches. He'd gone for a different color scheme when he re-decorated them in a fit of boredom (school colors—please don't judge him, you can't judge the temporarily crippled, it's rude). Sam slapped his hand down on his thigh, turning around in his seat to face Kurt.

"Wait until you see what he did to his cast! Show 'em, dude."

Rachel hadn't been impressed. "I expected... _lights_," she admitted at the end of class, eyes slowly trailing up and down the length of the cast. "It's missing something." He'd been hobbling his way to his locker when she stopped to give him a full sheet of star stickers. "They glow in the dark, she excited whispered.

Finn, holding Kurt's messenger bag, grinned. He stared off in the direction she had bounced away in. "Rachel Berry doesn't give her stars away to just _anyone_, man."

Kurt rolled his eyes, but was unable to completely keep the corners of his lips from curling into a smile. As if he was really going to put [Rachel Berry-approved] glow in the dark star stickers on his masterpiece, though. _As if_.

[—]

By the end of the school day, Kurt had reached new levels of exhaustion and achiness. He was fairly certain there wasn't a muscle in his body that wasn't frantically waving a white flag. Shoulders stiff and sore from the crutches, he stumbled as he made his way down the wheelchair ramp. To make sure he didn't fall and bust his head open on the concrete, Finn closely guarded him from the side. Artie trailed slowly behind them, abruptly stopping his complaint about finals to whistle.

"Our Queen's chariot awaits him."

Finn spun around, forehead furrowed. "Hey!"

"Only the fifth reference to my royal induction I've heard today—well, to my face. Not bad." Kurt had been so busy concentrating on not tripping that he hadn't even realized why Artie had made such a comment. Until Finn greeted his dapper surprise, that is. "_Where_?" He demanded, head snapping up. The heel of his cast dragged across the ground, leaving a scattered trail of rhinestones behind him.

Blaine, clad in dark jeans and a blue and white stripped polo, was standing at the end of the ramp, hands clasped behind his back. He closed the distance between them, pecking a kiss to Kurt's cheek. "Burt granted me permission to pick you up. I may or may not have bribed him with a bag of jelly-filled doughnuts for the privilege." Kurt scrunched up his nose.

"You gave _doughnuts_ to my dad?" He was betting they weren't organic.

Blaine immediately looked down, shuffling his feet. "It was a _small_ bag?"

"Nice," Finn said, rolling his eyes. He put his hand on Kurt's shoulder, asking him if he was going to be okay from there. "I told Rachel I'd meet her at her locker. We're going over to her place to, uh, study." Blaine accepted Kurt's messenger bag from Finn.

"You ready to go... _study_, too?" He asked Kurt, earning a sharp "hey!" from Finn as he walked back up the ramp. Blaine feigned a look of innocent confusion under the heat from the glare Finn was shooting down at him. Artie wheeled around them, throwing a peace sign their way. "We _are_ in the midst of finals—" He managed a clueless look, patting his pants pockets like maybe there was a memo stuffed in there that he'd missed. "Are we not?"

"Whatever, dude. Just, just be _careful_ with him." That having been said, the wide door leading into the school closed with a heavy thud behind Finn. Kurt was quiet, obviously taken back by the softly spoken request.

"Before you say anything, I think it's _adorable_ how he watches out for you." Kurt huffed, and made a face that reminded Blaine entirely too much of Finn. Sometimes he forgot they were only related through marriage. "Oh, come on. He clearly means well."

Kurt nodded his head, staring down at the ground as he tried to remember how to walk with crutches. He comfortably adjusted where they rested under his armpits. "Yeah," he verbally agreed once he'd taken a small hop forward, Blaine's hand shooting out to cup his elbow. "What's with that 'we' business, by the way? Dalton's last day of school was, what, last week? _I_ have finals to study for, _you_ have a summer break to start."

"You can't shoo me away just yet. I _am_ your ride, you know."

"I know, I know, my _chariot awaits_." Blaine's hand moved to the small of Kurt's back.

"You okay?" Kurt could hear his frown. He stilled long enough to feel Blaine's warm palm press into his skin through his shirt.

"Yeah, it's just... it's just been a long day." It wasn't only his body that was tired and overwhelmed from his first day back. His mind needed a break, needed to be able to shut down so that it could cool off—like maybe during a quiet make out session with his boyfriend in-between studying for his French and Cold War finals.

"Then let's get you out of here."

[—] 

They ended up stopping at their favorite coffee shop with Blaine ordering a lemonade for Kurt and his usual beverage for himself. While Blaine patiently waited at the counter for their drinks, Kurt sat at a table with his leg propped up on a chair. Smiling, he watched his boyfriend from across the room, and felt his stomach flutter when it occurred to him that a day had yet to pass since the accident where Blaine hadn't been there for him. He'd done it without any complaints, not even a "wow, all this driving kind of sucks."

"Thank you," he said when a plastic cup with ice and fresh lemonade was set down on the table. He opted against caffeine, planning to lie down for a quick nap when he got home. Blaine hadn't say anything about it, but Kurt hoped he would stay late again. He wanted to fall asleep with his head in Blaine's lap again, wanted to doze off with Blaine's fingers stroking through his hair. Kurt didn't realize how much he liked being spoiled with Blaine's all day/everyday presence. "I really can't get enough of you, _wow_."

Blaine stirred his coffee with red straw. "That good or bad?" He looked up when he hadn't received any type of response. Kurt was staring down at his untouched lemonade, eyebrows drawn together. "Kurt?" Blaine scooted his chair closer. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm—I'm sorry, my leg, it's really bothering me. Can you just take me home?" Moist lips skimmed across Kurt's temple. Kurt frowned, fingers itching to wrap around Blaine's wrist, to rub up and down his bare arms. He stood up abruptly, clamping a hand down on Blaine's shoulder to keep steady. He was mad at him, frustrated with his _greediness_. He felt full up to the rim with a _want_ he'd never felt before.

"Yeah," mumbled Blaine, followed by an unnecessary, "of course." He looked up at Kurt with wide eyes, sounding worried.

On their way to Blaine's car, Kurt tripped when he swung off the curb, and stumbled forward, losing his balance. Blaine was quick to drop the drinks and catch him, his arms snaking around his waist. Kurt let one crutch fall to the ground, and slumped against Blaine, sighing. When Blaine opened his mouth, Kurt kissed him, hard. It took a few seconds for Blaine to react, to kiss him back, and by the time Kurt's hand found its way to Blaine's cheek, he felt the tightening of his jaw under his touch. They broke apart when a car honked its horn, maybe not at them, but it was enough.

"I'm OK," he breathlessly said.

[—]

Keys jingling in her hand, Carole had been on her way out of the house when Blaine pulled into the driveway. She lingered on the top porch step, pretending to look through her purse for a misplaced item. It had taken some time for Blaine to help Kurt out of the car, but they were slowly making their way up the sidewalk. Carole smiled at how fed up Kurt was with the crutches, her eyes full of sympathy. "Can I pick you up anything special at the supermarket, sweetie?"

"Maybe some zucchini? I think I want to make zucchini bread tonight." He hadn't done any cooking or baking since before the accident (not that he hadn't tried; there had been numerous times he'd been pulled out of the kitchen by various family members and Blaine, too looped up on pain medications to be trusted near a hot stove or sharp objects). Carole let out a happy sigh, patting his cheek. She also pinched Blaine's cheek, greeting him warmly.

"I assume you'll be staying for supper?" She asked in a tone that told them she already knew the answer to her own question. He glanced sideways, waiting for Kurt to nod before he did so himself.

"Only if you'll have me, Mrs. Hummel."

"Oh, _Blaine_," she laughed, hand on his shoulder as she walked down the concrete steps. In her other hand, she waved her keys. "Not only do we _have_ you, but I don't think we're ever letting go." Her heart was swelling with gratitude for Blaine. In private, she had already mentioned to him how grateful Burt was for all the help with a very stubborn Kurt. Carole was thankful that Burt could rest easier knowing that there was someone else looking for his son. "Call me if you boys can think of anything else you might need while I'm out."

It was only a matter of time before Kurt was sprawled out on his stomach across Blaine's lap, his chin resting against the arm of the couch. He'd basically just waited for Blaine to sit down, then flopped down on him, limbs gracefully flailing. "I hope this is OK," Kurt sleepily mumbled, eyes closed as he listened to Blaine flip through channels on the TV. He down the volume down low, one hand rubbing circles above the waistband of Kurt's pants. "You've spent two weeks being my beanbag chair. How are you not sick of me yet?"

"It's been my honor to be your 'beanbag chair.'" Judging by Blaine's tone, he preferred a better title than the one given. "I'll say it once more for you: there's no other place I'd rather be." Kurt smirked against the cushion.

"Than under me? Maybe I don't blame you for that one."

Blaine laughed, bouncing his knees up and down, lightly tapping his palms up and down in the same rhythm against Kurt's backside. Kurt groaned, his feeble attempts to roll off Blaine's lap thwarted by Blaine's strong grip on his hips. "This _is_ OK," he said with a certain fondness that had Kurt opening his eyes, "it's all OK."

Kurt turned around, and sat up, still seated atop his boyfriend's thighs, and wrapped an arm around Blaine's shoulders, pulling him in close. "It is," he agreed, kissing his mouth instead of his cheek when Blaine turned his head. They were quiet for a long moment, then Kurt unhappily huffed out a breath. "We need to do something about my cast. I can't believe I let you decorate it entirely with rhinestones. _Rhinestones_, Blaine."

"I—you—but, but—_you_!"

[—]

It was a week after school ended for Kurt when Blaine, for the first time in the three weeks since the accident, wasn't able to come over. It was the day of his cousin's high school graduation party, and his parents wouldn't let him miss it, even if he wasn't particularly close with said cousin. It was also the same day when Kurt decided to use a wheeled stool to step up onto while dusting off the higher shelves to his built-in bookcase. He stepped up with his good leg, using a crutch for leverage, then attempted to shake his ass to a new Britney song when it started playing on the radio. The stool rolled out from under him before his brain could remember what common sense even was.

Up until then, Kurt hadn't had any recollection from the day of the accident, but the hard crash to the floor had knocked something loose in his memory. He groaned in-between sharp wheezes, curled onto his side. The gentle, yet rough feel of his dad's hands on his shoulders brought him back to that night—lying on the ground in the middle of the road, struggling against Burt's grip. He'd been confused, had wanted to sit up, but Burt held him down until the ambulance arrived. Kurt hadn't realized the small bruises on his shoulders weren't from the impact of the _car_.

The Hudson-Hummel family sat in a crowded emergency department's waiting room at a local hospital for two hours before Kurt was called back to see a doctor. He rubbed his sore ribs, wheezing and grumbling while Burt wheeled him around the nurse's station. Kurt had initially refused the wheelchair, but deemed it the lesser of two evils after Burt threatened to throw him over his shoulder. The doctor verbally ordered x-rays to a nurse as he used his stethoscope to listen to Kurt's breathing.

"This could've been worse," Kurt said to Burt rather than inhaling deeply when instructed to do so by the doctor. He was fairly sure he narrowly escaped an impalement by that damned duster, so yeah, definitely "could've been worse." He wasn't sad about missing out on the opportunity to be known by the department staff as 'that boy who coughed up bloody and dirty feathers in curtain area two.' _Endearingly_ known as, by the way. He flinched away from cold, persistent hands as they prodded at his ribcage.

Glancing down quickly into Kurt's opened chart, the doctor looked up at him over the thick rims of his glasses. "Young man," he sighed as if this wasn't the first time they've had this conversation, "the worst may have yet to come." Burt stood up abruptly, pulling off his baseball cap.

"Is there something wrong with my son?"

"Yes, Mr. Hummel, your son has a fractured tibia that's barely had a chance to _start_ healing. While it says here it is non-displaced, he could require surgery to re-align any bone fragments that may have shifted position in the fall."

"Dad, dad?" Eyes frozen on the doctor's stern face, Kurt stretched his arm out in Burt's direction. "Dad, I don't like _any_ of those words."

While Burt had a quiet chit-chat with the doctor out in the hall, Kurt waited to be taken down to Radiology. He took out his cellular phone, scrolling down all the unsent, half-written messages to Blaine he had saved in his drafts box. He re-read over Blaine's texts from earlier that afternoon. 'Found out why my parents wanted me to come so badly: I'm the entertainment. Walked in and was immediately handed a microphone and list of songs.' He'd laughed at and shared Blaine's disgust with the unjust amount (as in _any_) of Nickelback on the list. Kurt pressed the 'CLR' button on his phone until he was brought back to the main screen. Communication via texting probably wasn't the best way of handling the "how to tell him" situation.

_Surgery_. Really? He chewed on the inside of his cheek, squeezing the cell phone in-between his hands. The throbbing pain in his leg screamed at him in threatening syllables. _Sur ger y, sur ger y, sur ger y. _

Damn you, Britney, and your impeccable rhythmic flow with the irresistible beats.

Fear and guilt swirling around in the pit of his stomach enough to make him nauseous, Kurt pressed down on speed dial number two on his phone. 'Calling,' the tiny screen read in a bold font, 'Blaine.'

"Blaine," he gushed out in a low whine as soon as he heard his boyfriend's voice, "I had one of those momentary lapse of judgment moments, and now they're saying words like 'surgery,' and I'm _so_ going to die like Mandy Moore's character on _Grey's Anatomy_ where she survives the hospital shooting only to succumb to some rare anesthesia complication after her postponed 'bag of poo' operation, and I really don't want to _die_, Blaine, all I wanted to do was _dust_." Other than distant background noise, the silent response on the other line dragged on for a moment too long. Face pinched up, Kurt rocked back and forth, and tried not to wheeze too heavily into the receiver.

"I'm really sorry, but my phone cut out, and you completely lost me after the mention of a lapse of judgement." He stumbled over another apology, confusion and worry trying to hide under hesitance. Miles apart, Kurt could hear the wheels in Blaine's head cranking as they turned. He knew Kurt's follow up appointment at the trauma clinic wasn't for another week. "Hold on, baby, let me go inside, and you can take a few deep breaths, okay?"

"I can't really breathe in too deep; I might have a fractured rib or two."

"Wait, what? What happened, are you okay? Was it another car, what happened?"

"Yeah, Blaine," Kurt testily snapped, "it was 'another car.' They really ought to put up a bigger stop sign on that corner, huh?" He hissed, but it wasn't from the pain. "I'm sorry, that was... _Blaine_." At that moment, all Kurt really wanted—other than assurance that he hadn't had a major recovery setback—was Blaine (and Blaine's comforting arms wound around him, and the feel of warmth ghosting across his ear and cheek as Blaine sung softly to him). He decided to rip the band-aid off. "I fell off a chair, and I might've messed up my leg even more, hence surgery, which _oh my god_."

"You fell off a chair?" Blaine asked, sad, likely mentally cursing at himself for not being there to catch him (or at least break his fall). Another moment of bad luck he couldn't fix, and Blaine was beyond ticked off as another obstacle was hurled under his precious boyfriend's feet. Blaine was once again left to feel useless while Kurt, who had been through enough already, struggled to keep his head up high. He loved that Kurt was so resilient, but there was obviously only so much a person could handle until something in them snapped.

"Yeah, I was only trying to keep my room clean, but I think from now on I'll leave climbing on furniture to you."

"Oh, Kurt—wait, were you _sitting_ or _standing_ on the chair when you fell off?"

Kurt was in the middle of drawing out the details to Blaine when the curtain around him swished opened to the side. An orderly, an older woman wearing mismatched scrubs, announced she was there to take him down for his tests. Burt followed in behind her, hanging off to the side, wringing his hat in his hands. The escort verified the personal information printed on the white band around Kurt's thin wrist.

"It's time. Thanks for—_thanks_." Trying to ignore the two sets of eyes staring down at him, Kurt felt his cheeks heat up. "I'll call you when we know more, okay?"

"Okay, Kurt, I—_I_—good luck. Call me or text me, even without updates, I'm here, anytime for anything, got it?"

Trying to hide his smile, Kurt tucked his chin down, his cheeks somehow managing to fill with even more warmth. "Yeah," he affirmed, "I got it."

[—] 

Blaine, after lying ("It wasn't so much _lying_ as it was 'intentionally misinforming' them on specific details," Blaine would later defensively correct Kurt, "You _were_ in the hospital, and I'd only told them I wanted to get there _before_ they prepped you for surgery, which was _somewhat_ the truth," and then he'd guiltily pout when Kurt would declare, "you could've jinxed me!") to his parents so they'd relieve him of serenading his cousin's one hundred closest friends, arrived at the hospital as Kurt's doctor was signing off on his discharge papers.

"This is good, right? No surgery?" He hopefully asked to be sure, the sight of Kurt in a wheelchair leaving an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach once again. He'd been halfway there when he'd received a text from Kurt saying, "no misaligned fractures=no surgery! Going home soon, how's the party?" Not wanting to text and drive, he'd waited until he reached the hospital's parking lot to read the text, and had slumped over the steering wheel after the world's biggest sigh deflated all of the air out from his lungs.

"We're in the clear as long as Kurt retires his roll-away chair balancing act." Burt looked annoyed, although his tone was light. Behind him, a hunched-back Finn was flopping around on Kurt's crutches. One stern head shake from Carole had him stilling instantly, smiling sheepishly. "Never thought I'd have to _ground_ my kid from cleaning." Too busy batting his eyelashes at Blaine, Kurt had only been half-listening, and snapped his head up when a certain word had caught his attention.

"I'm _grounded_?"

"Hell yeah you are. Next time you want something dusted, or wiped off, picked up, washed off, _whatever_, you call for me, OK? You ask Carole, Finn, or Blaine, but you _do not_ do it _yourself_." He'd rolled up the discharge papers, and tapped Kurt on the head with them to add emphasis after every word in the last part of his little speech. "I know it was an accident, but you've got to _think_, so don't you _ever_ pull anything like this again." He reminded Kurt he was lucky to be leaving there with "only" bruised ribs—much better than with screws and plates in his leg.

Carole hooked her arm around Burt's, leaning into him. "You boys have _maxed out_ on your lifetime quota for ER visits," she sighed out, her cheek pressing into her husband's shoulder. "We might just start bundling the both of you up with bubble wrap, _in or out of the house_, until high school graduation." Burt's gaze fell heavily upon Blaine. His shoulders sagged immediately under the weight.

"Then we'll pass on the tradition to _you_." Blaine made a mental note to later ask Kurt if he had told his father about their NYC plans after high school. He already knew the answer, but he was still going to ask.

"Was I given something?" Kurt suddenly asked, his booming voice cutting over Blaine's awkward "oh?" He remembered telling the nurse he didn't want anything for the pain, but also remembered the nurse handing him a plastic cup with pills in it... and knocking them back with room temperature water. Well played, nurse, well played. "I'm getting that weird feeling again that makes me want to smile until my cheeks split open." He wrapped his fingers around Blaine's wrist. "I don't like it," he whispered.

"Ready to get out of here?" Burt needlessly asked, nodding his head at Blaine when he pointed down at Kurt, making a pushing movement with his hands. The entire trip to Burt's car, Kurt had the heels of his palms pressed firmly into his cheeks. Blaine lost count of how many times he quickly swooped down to kiss the top of Kurt's head, and would bite back a smile when Kurt looked up and around, confused.

"Hey mom, that bubble wrap thing?" Finn asked, nearly stopping in the middle of the ER parking lot to enjoy a breeze passing his way. "That was a joke, right? Mom?"

[—]

"Oh, Blaine," Carole happily sighed when she peeked out the front door to find her step-son's boyfriend standing there, holding up a plastic-wrapped platter of cupcakes with red, white, and blue tinged frosting. The door swung open. "Just what we needed." She stepped off to the side, arms wildly flailing in what he supposed might have been a gesture for him to 'come on in!'

"Cupcakes?" He dubiously asked, suspicious eyes flicking up and down from her relieved face to the thickly-frosted cupcakes. He absolutely was not wondering if it was totally obvious that they were store bought, by the way. Kurt wasn't even in clear view, and he probably already knew it. It was, like, his seventh sense (Blaine was vaguely aware of Kurt's sixth sense, something to do with hair, right? His hands tightened around the plate. Oh god, did he just lose some boyfriend points?).

She held up a vegetable peeler, exchanging it for his contribution to the Hudson-Hummel's first annual 4th of July backyard BBQ party. "You."

He squinted at the foreign object. "What?"

In the next room, Kurt was perched on a wooden stool at the kitchen island. Singing under his breath, he picked out a small potato to peel from the high pile in front of him. He'd been half-way through shaving off the rough skin when he heard the shuffling of feet, and looked up to see Carole dragging Blaine through the wide doorway. "Boyfriend Warbler, it is so—_oh, honey_. Humidity is really fighting it out with your hair." He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"Kurt," Carole chided lightly, mouth straining not to smile when Blaine patted down his hair, "be nice." Her back turned to Kurt, she set down Blaine's cupcakes behind a tower of paper towels. "I'm going to go outside, start setting up, and Burt called me from Sears to let me know he found that grill part, so you two have maybe fifteen, twenty minutes of alone time." She twirled around, clapping her hands. "Alone time to... _peel_," she winked, and before bouncing away, said, "the potatoes, not clothing, _boys_," and may or may not have been referring to a recent incident.

"Darling, I have news," Kurt was quick to drawl out in a sing-song tone, anxiously patting his palms down his thighs when Blaine continued to stand there, sheepishly staring off in the direction Carole had gone off in. "Come here," he impatiently nudged the closest stool with a sock-clad foot. "Sit," he ordered, "kiss, peel, and listen 'cause I have _news_." Blaine obeyed, although it ended up more like: kiss, kiss, sit, kiss, kiss, stand up, kiss kiss, sit back down, kiss, kiss, and then a potato was pushed into Blaine's hand.

Panting, Blaine squeezed his hand around the potato. Hard. Trying not to focus on his tingling lips or on all the heat that had pooled in the pit of his belly, he looked around. What did he do with that peeler? Vegetables were a good distraction or whatever, he guessed, but what he really wanted was another kiss. Or to revisit that shirtless make out session on the couch from last week (but without the interruption from Carole or any family member this time, please). "News?" He finally squeaked, his brain booting back up as its blood supply returned. "Good news, I hope."

"Well, it's more like good _enough_ news from the ortho doc, but I also have fantastic news from dad and Carole. Which would you like first? Pick, quick!"

"I'll take the ortho doc's 'good enough' news for $200, Alex."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Yeah, cute. Let's not." He set down a perfectly sculptured potato that Blaine had to marvel at because _what the hell_, how did he manage that while kissing him? "Mark your calendar—in two weeks, two weeks exactly, they're sawing this bad boy off. I'm sure you're crushed, so I'll save you a piece as a memento." Kurt hissed out a low, displeased groan. "Of course, I'm being forced to wear some ridiculously heavy Velcro boot for _approximately_," he stalled to roll his eyes again, but this time it was reserved for his lying liar of a doctor, "three to four more weeks, so by the time I'm done with physical therapy? It'll be time to go back to school, but _whatever_, this has hardly been my worst summer _by far_."

"Kurt Hummel, did I just spy with my little eye some _optimism_?" He slid off his seat, stepping forward into the 'v' of Kurt's sprawled knees, and leaned in for a kiss. Kurt laughed against his lips, chasing his mouth with eager playfulness.

"I think it's cute when you totally ignore my sarcasm and input what you want to hear, but sure, I'll go for that. Optimism, _woo_." He grabbed Blaine's shoulders, keeping him close. "Oh, right, and now for the _fantastic_ news. You ready?" Blaine had just worked out the first syllable of "ready" when Kurt gushed out, "We're going to New York City! Dad told me last night that he and Carole discussed it, and want to take me and Finn for a week-long concrete jungle adventure, and—_and_ we can each take a friend, and—_and_ my dad, Burt Hummel, gave me the OK to ask you. He gave me the OK, Blaine, for _you_."

Blaine straightened back, Kurt's hands sliding down to grip his biceps. "Wow." Kurt's hands dropped again, fingers skimming the back of his arms before encircling around his wrists. "Wow, I'd love that, absolutely, and I mean, I'll have to run it by my parents, but I'd love to go with you, your family, I would. I'd love it, to be there to watch your face as you take it all in... yeah, I'd love it." He laughed nervously, both embarrassed and amused by his babbling. "It would be an honor."

"See? Totally not a wasted summer. I still get to go ride a plane and see New York for the first time, I still get to spend even more time with you, and all with a bum leg. Not too bad, if I say myself, which I do." Blaine sat back down, resting his elbow against the edge of the counter. He nestled his chin to the palm of his hand, neck muscles straining.

"I'm not inputting anything, you sly devil. I definitely see some optimism shining through. It doesn't hurt, does it? I hear the burning feeling goes away after a while."

"Shut up, I can _so_ be optimistic without it being out of character. I can say, with confidence and optimism that isn't so much a hair out of place, that I've had a pretty good year, not just summer." He picked up another potato, slicing with ease through the thick skin.

"Summer's not even halfway over."

Kurt's smile was the brightest Blaine had ever seen it, and he basked in the glow of it. "Better yet," he happily said, and Blaine felt his heart swell with pride. This was a Kurt he hadn't seen a lot of, but occasionally caught a few glimpses of over the past few months. He loved seeing Kurt break free of the shell he'd encased himself in over the past few years. It wasn't easy, life never simply was, but he'd managed to shine through with brilliance.

"I love you," he blurted out, honestly stating exactly what he was feeling at that moment. The peeling slipped out of Kurt's grasp. He swallowed thickly, willing himself not to—oh, please, for once, don't—blush.

"I love you, too." His cheeks lit up anyway, and Blaine reached down to take his hand, maybe kiss his soft knuckles if he was lucky. Staring across at his boy, he wondered if it _was_ possible to get any luckier than he already was. "I stink like starch," Kurt warned.

"I don't care." And then Blaine said, as a reminder, "I love you."

[_xoxo_]


End file.
